


The Nemophilists

by risowator, whatthefoucault



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Brooklyn, Brunch, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2019, Food, Hot Springs & Onsen, Inspired by Studio Ghibli, M/M, New York City, STEVE ROGERS IS TRYING HIS BEST, Sex, Sexual Content, Sleepy Cuddles, Slice of Life, Travel, enchanted forest, foraging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-13 00:46:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19240432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/risowator/pseuds/risowator, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: “Conspicuous,” said Steve, apropos of nothing. Bucky was putting away the last of the clean dishes.“Conspicuous?” asked Bucky, nesting the heatproof glass bowl precariously in a short stack of significantly smaller cereal bowls.“Yeah,” said Steve, scooping last of the leftovers into a container that, it turned out, was a tablespoon too small. “I’m.”Nemophilist:(n.) One who is fond of the forest.





	The Nemophilists

**Author's Note:**

> A collaboration for the Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2019. Many thanks indeed to the illustrious [risowator](https://risowator.tumblr.com/) for the sweet illustrations, and [calendulae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calendulae/) for the fabulous beta!
> 
> Do be sure to give my lovely illustrator some love for [their art on tumblr](https://risowator.tumblr.com/tagged/The-Nemophilists-Cap-RBB).
> 
> Do you like soundtracks? [This story has one.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7xuIufCy3I1evd7Ck3kCqi)

“Maybe I should get the eggs royale this time,” Steve mused, surveying the menu.

“Steve,” reasoned Bucky, “you always do this. You say you’re gonna get the fishcakes, or shakshouka, or the goddamn three-egg combo with hash browns and a farmer’s sausage, and you always get pancakes. It’s okay if you just wanna get pancakes!”

Steve took a sharp breath. He glanced down at the menu again. It was one of those now-institutions that had, it turned out, been there since the first time Bucky and Steve lived in Brooklyn together, all wood-paneled walls and checkerboard floor, with meticulously polished chrome furnishings, thick-cut slices of brown toast, and always a generous flourish of ready-whip squirted on top of an egg cream. Which was sheer indulgence, of course, but if there was one meal of the day that demanded it, it was brunch.

“Okay,” he said, ready at last to admit defeat. “You know what? Pancakes sound good.”

Natasha and Sam had texted ten minutes earlier to say they were five minutes away. Steve was not sure how much longer he could justify two people sat at a four-person table, when the line for brunch still stretched halfway down the block. Bucky smiled at him.

“What,” asked Steve, barely intoned as a question. Bucky was staring at him with the kind of shit-eating grin that usually meant that Steve had an especially silly errant eyebrow hair, or a piece of parsley in his teeth, or he had misaligned the buttons on his shirt. Again.

“We slept together,” replied Bucky, his gaze fluttering down to the table. It was almost shy, as though shyness was something not long abandoned between them. “Don't tell me you forgot.”

“It’s been three hours,” countered Steve. “What do you think I am, a goldfish?” 

As if he could forget, thought Steve, how at last they had fumbled together in the soft light of dawn, breathless and brimming with nerves and joy.

“I sure hope not,” said Bucky, “I don't think I’m the kind of fella who'd have sex with a goldfish.”

“That's a relief,” said Steve. “I think.”

“I’d have sex with you,” offered Bucky, nudging the table's ketchup bottle out of the way in order to hold Steve's hand.

“What, now?” asked Steve, running the pad of his thumb along the smooth lines of Bucky’s metal palm. Judging by Bucky's barely suppressed giggle, that was exactly where it tickled. “I don’t really want to cause a scene.”

“Fine,” conceded Bucky. “Do we have any plans after brunch?”

Steve thought a moment. “Nothing we can’t postpone. Do I want chocolate chip pancakes, or blueberry and banana?” 

Two friend-shaped figures seated themselves opposite them before he could decide, slinging their jackets over the backs of their seats.

“This place better be worth the effort,” Sam told them, eschewing the traditional niceties. “We had to fight like nine tourists to get in here.”

“And that’s why you should have arrived early.” Bucky rested a smug arm around Steve’s shoulders. Steve elected, quite sensibly he thought, to stay out of this one.

Natasha rolled her eyes, flipping open the menu.

“Well, I dunno about you guys, but I could really go for some pancakes,” said Steve. Bucky shook his head with a soft laugh, snuggling into Steve’s side.

“Is it just me, or are these two old dudes being extra gross this morning?” asked Sam.

“It’s not just you,” agreed Natasha. “So gross.”

Brunch was, as usual, brilliant: a tower of perfectly browned pillow-soft discs, glazed with glistening lashings of deep amber maple syrup, scattered with a tumble of sweet-sharp and almost floral blueberries, and topped with that one perfect fat little square of butter that slowly melted away into a sensual puddle.

The coffee was terrible, just as it should be. When it came to brunch, thought Steve, sometimes only the greasiest of spoons would do.

“I think they know,” Steve whispered to Bucky, as their dining companions shuffled outside, happily stuffed with their fluffy tufts of scrambled eggs, wobbly strips of crisp, smoked bacon, and shimmering, oil-slicked hashbrowns.

“Know?”

“That we…” Steve raised his eyebrows as far as he could, hoping they would convey the urgency of his concern.

Bucky shook his head fondly. “Stevie,” he said, “we’ve been living together, on and off, for years. I think, if they've thought about it at all, they probably think we've already been…”

Bucky raised his eyebrows as far as he could in return.

“You sure?” asked Steve.

“Since the thirties,” continued Bucky, bumping his shoulder affectionately against Steve’s.

“Okay,” blushed Steve, ducking his head. 

Steve was growing used to seeing Bucky this easy and comfortable again, and he was grateful for it. Bucky squinted against the heavy midday sun as they passed the newsstand and the barber and the hardware store and the nail salon and the real estate agent and the deli and the video rental store that had been closed since long before they moved back into Brooklyn, presumably. He pressed an awkward kiss to Bucky’s cheek as they walked, fumbling a moment before finding his feet again. Bucky was on about two days’ stubble: Steve wondered if he was planning to go full beardy bear again, or if it was simply Sunday morning.

“Got something you want to share with the class, Rogers?” Natasha shouted back at Steve, motioning for the pair to hurry the fuck up. They were almost at the park, though Steve suspected that bellies were too full and too sleepy for anyone to want to play a proper game of ultimate frisbee.

“No, ma’am,” replied Steve.

“Uh-huh.” Natasha shot him a knowing smirk.

“He’s probably regretting bringing the frisbee,” suggested Sam, “because he knows we’re gonna kick his ass, and he can’t spare the public embarrassment.”

Steve smiled. He could feel Bucky's hand on his arm, a subtle warning, but he knew what he was doing.

“You wanna bet?” he asked, running ahead of them onto the green.

“Oh, it’s on,” replied Sam, diving into Steve and tackling him into the grass before he could even make the first throw.

The discarded frisbee was retrieved by a nearby beagle, who proudly trotted the disc back to Steve.

“Well, how about that,” he said, brushing the dirt from his face. “The winner is... Little Miss Pickle. Good dog.”

Little Miss Pickle lay down with a quiet snuffle, rolled over onto her back, and smiled.

“So what's new this week?” Susan smiled a gentle, empathetic smile at him from her comfortable chair.

Steve blanched, then shrugged. “Nothing much,” he said.

“Mm-hmm,” she deadpanned. “Very convincing.”

“It’s just.” Steve cleared his throat. “It’s personal.”

“Steve, I’m your therapist,” Susan reminded him. “If you can’t talk about personal things here, where can you?”

“I know, I know,” he agreed. He may have been blushing. “This is just... you know…”

“Personal?” she supplied for him. “Well, you don’t have to share. We can talk about something else. We can talk about what you had for lunch, or we can sit here for the next half an hour and watch to see if my new orchid flowers. But I don’t know how much you’d get out of it.”

Steve sighed, staring resolutely at the shelf of books behind Susan’s desk. She had rearranged them by colour since his last appointment. 

“Sex,” he said at last, far more abruptly than he had meant. “I mean, Bucky and I had... sex.”

Susan raised an eyebrow. “Okay, that’s a pretty big step. How do you feel about it?”

Steve crossed his arms, shifting uncomfortably. Therapy was, at best, an interesting exercise in talking about things he would have hitherto left entirely unspoken: sometimes buried deep, sometimes festering. It was good to be there, to have a safe outlet for his thoughts with a trusted professional who was nice.

“Fine,” he squeaked, feeling himself turn the colour of a particularly ripe tomato.

“Right,” she nodded. “Listen, we don’t need to get into specifics, but it obviously means something to you or you wouldn’t have brought it up today. Sex can be a bigger deal, emotionally, than the kind of... flippancy with which it gets thrown around these days, the assumption that everybody else is doing it, or doing more of it in more ways, or even that everybody else wants to do it.”

“It wasn't a topic of polite conversation back in the day,” he explained, allowing an infinitesimal quantity of tension to drain from him and into the vintage hardwood floor.

“Was this your first time?” she asked, so gently, without judgment. Steve was not sure whether it was refreshing or patronising.

“No,” he told her, almost surprised at his own candour. “Second. But the first was... a long time ago. Before the war. You know, there was kind of... a lot between then and now.”

Steve remembered it with more clarity than he remembered what he was doing last week. He remembered the palpable shift in the sleepy bedroom air between them.

“Bucky?” Steve had whispered, which meant, have you done this before, do you know what you're doing?

“Stevie,” Bucky had replied, which meant, no, but I think we'll figure it out.

And they did. He held that memory in his heart, unspoken but treasured, until Bucky came back to him, and they went home together.

Susan nodded, taking a thoughtful sip of her tea, yanking Steve back from his little reverie. “Hey, there’s no set timeline or speed for these things,” she said. “But maybe the fact that you were both ready to introduce this into your relationship means…”

“We’re starting to figure out what having a life together looks like again,” said Steve.

“See? That’s a good way of looking at it.”

“So?” Wade asked expectantly, hands tucked sweetly under his chin. “What did you think of the movie?”

“It was nice,” smiled Steve, adjusting the fluffy throw pillow behind his head. “I like the cat... bus... thing.”

“I like Totoro,” said Bucky, scraping the last nacho over the bottom of the dip bowl, coming up with a very thin stripe of guacamole. “He’s so round.”

“And now you understand what’s on your sweet new t-shirts,” Wade beamed, gesturing to the handsome silkscreens of Totoro and No-Face, respectively, adorning their torsos. “I guessed you were both size Medium, was I right?”

“Yeah, it’s perfect,” replied Steve, running a hand over the soft knit fabric that skimmed snugly over his tummy.

“To be honest,” said Bucky, scrubbing a hand over his stubbled cheek, “it could stand to be a size roomier – ”

“Shhhhh, it’s just right,” Wade assured him. “Accentuates your... you-ness.”

“... Sure. I’m gonna go check on the mac and cheese." Bucky blinked, shuffling into the kitchen. Wade slithered across the sofa, leaning in close to Steve.

“You’ve had sex,” he said. 

Steve froze. Was it that obvious after all? “How did you - ”

“I’ve got an intuition about these things,” he explained. “Maybe it’s part of my superpowers. Maybe I was born with it. Maybe it’s Maybelline.”

“Wade, don’t – ”

“Maybe it was wishful thinking and a lucky guess,” he continued. “Were you seriously just going to have sex and not tell me all the steamy details? What was it like? What was he like? Which one of you’s, you know... the big spoon?”

“Come on, that’s personal!” protested Steve, struggling to keep his voice down. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Okay, I believe you,” Wade nodded, returning to his seat. “Oh wait, I super don’t. It's a huge deal and I can’t believe you’re holding out on me! I need deets! I need tails! As your best friend in the whole universe, I need to share in your significant emotional journey!”

Steve sighed. “If it gets you to stop asking, ever again, I’ll answer one question.”

Wade gasped, eyes wide and sparkling with wonder and joy. 

“Wow,” replied Wade. “Okay, one question, one question. So many possibilities, how do I pick just one?”

“Was that your question?” asked Steve.

“No!” protested Wade. Steve smiled. Wade composed himself. “Okay, okay. When it comes to butt stuff, who’s – ”

“We’re really not into butt stuff,” Steve cut him off, furiously resisting the urge to blush.

“Good to know,” nodded Wade. “Lots of guys aren’t. I mean, I am, but... hey, you’re a man who knows what he likes. I respect that.”

“Does that satisfy your curiosity?” asked Steve, arms crossed.

“Hardly,” replied Wade. “But I’ll keep my promise.”

“Thank you,” said Steve.

“For now.”

“Conspicuous,” said Steve, apropos of nothing. Bucky was putting away the last of the clean dishes.

“Conspicuous?” asked Bucky, nesting the heatproof glass bowl precariously in a short stack of significantly smaller cereal bowls.

“Yeah,” said Steve, scooping last of the leftovers into a container that, it turned out, was a tablespoon too small. “I’m.”

Bucky stopped, set the green ladle on the counter. “You’re gonna have to elaborate, pal.”

Steve exhaled sharply. “Just something that Tony said on instagram.”

Steve pushed through the second kitchen drawer, past the plastic wrap, the two kinds of foil, and the extra three rolls of baking parchment they had picked up when there was an offer on, to the freezer bags, of which, owing to an apparent omission on their last shopping trip, they only had medium size. It felt like too much plastic to waste on a spoonful of cold chickpeas, so he ate them.

“What did he do, tag you in an unflattering photo?” Bucky nested the clean saucepan atop its upturned lid in the cupboard, which in turn wobbled slightly on a slightly-too-wide muffin tin that had been wedged in at a slight diagonal angle.

“No, it was – ” Steve stopped himself, finished chewing his food, swallowed, and continued. “You know that photo he posted of himself and Strange at the all-you-can-eat sushi place?”

“The one from today where he looks like he’s going to die if he so much as looks at another tempura shrimp?” asked Bucky.

“Bingo,” replied Steve, already pulling out his phone. “So, I commented that he needs to learn some discipline, and then he said, and I quote: ‘Discipline, huh? Why does it not surprise me you're into discipline, Rogers? It's always the quiet ones,’ winking face emoji, sunglasses face emoji, eggplant emoji, eggplant emoji, that emoji that scares me that I think is supposed to be the moon but also it's smiling. What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means he's Tony, so he's winding you up,” reasoned Bucky, who was quite correct. Steve knew this. Nevertheless.

“I know, but.” Steve did not have the words to articulate the feelings he was feeling. He hoped the pained expression he was attempting to make conveyed them to Bucky.

Bucky sighed. “You’re just noticing this stuff because it’s on your mind,” he said, dropping the last of the teaspoons into the cutlery drawer with a tiny clatter. “Trust me, your friends are always this weird.” 

“Our friends,” corrected Steve, following Bucky back to the living room.

“When they’re being this weird, they’re your friends,” Bucky shrugged, making himself comfortable amid the scattering of throw pillows on the sofa.

“Thanks.” Steve settled in beside him, switching the television on. There was Star Trek to watch.

“Hey Steve,” Bucky began, taking a short breath before continuing, “you don’t… do you regret that we – ”

“No!” Steve hastened to say, gathering Bucky's hands in his. “No, no, never, not for a second.”

“Stevie,” he said quietly, “I don’t – I don’t care about the sex. I just care about you.” 

“Thanks, Buck.”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s nice,” he smiled.

“Yeah,” agreed Steve, “really nice.”

“You know, most people get nervous before the sex,” reasoned Bucky, carding his fingers through Steve's hair. It was a rare little gesture, but one that had always comforted him more than he could say. “Then again, how many times have you jumped out of an airplane?”

Steve thought. Hard. “I’m wracking my brain here.”

“And you’ve never seen a parachute in your life,” added Bucky.

“You got me there.” The next episode was simply called “Spock's Brain,” which boded well for a good space adventure, thought Steve. “Hey Buck, maybe we should just... go someplace without wifi for a while. Just the two of us. Someplace quiet, with... a really bouncy mattress.”

Bucky laughed. “God, you’re so romantic.”

“Steve!” Wade shouted down the line, with a choppy breathlessness that suggested he was on a brisk walk. Steve plugged his free ear, to filter out the ambient sounds of the park and the river around him. Bucky had stopped to take a photo, before the beautifully lit scene across the water transitioned back to a blander time of day.

“Hey, Wade, so about – ”

“What’s the emergency?” Wade cut him off. “Henchmen? Another alien invasion? Mad scientist with more money than sense? A giant space-whale intent on eating the moon like a big ol’ cookie, unaware of the catastrophic effect this would have on the earth and its tides, etcetera, etcetera?”

“This is a personal request,” clarified Steve. 

“Ah, this is about how you finally lost your virginity,” replied Wade, a little too loudly for Steve's liking.

“Wasn’t a virgin,” he replied, with greater protestation than he had meant to express out loud. Bucky raised an inquisitive eyebrow at that, to which Steve raised both of his eyebrows in mildly embarrassed reply.

“Close enough,” said Wade. Steve shrugged, as though Wade would somehow hear him shrugging. “You ready to lift that embargo on details already? I’m impressed. Question one: foreskin. Does – ”

“Gonna have to stop you right there, Wade,” interrupted Steve, feeling his ears turn a distinctly strawberry shade of pink. “I was just wondering if Bucky and I could maybe – ”

“Do you want to borrow one of my safehouses?” asked Wade.

“How many safehouses do you have?”

“I’m like the Airbnb of safehouses,” he said. “Hmm, what’s a good, safe place, that's clean and quiet? You’ve been to Quebec, Tel Aviv’s under renovations, Nairobi’s a little sweaty this time of year… ah. Got it.”

“That's great, where – ”

“I’ll set everything up,” Wade continued. “Just be at the airport around, oh, I think there’s a flight out just after lunch.”

“Seriously?” asked Steve.

“It’s the least I can do for my very best friend in the world,” replied Wade. “Have good sex, you two!”

“So, what’d he say?” asked Bucky, gently nudging Steve with his elbow.

Steve smiled. “Looks like you and I are going… somewhere cryptic, because it’s Wade.”

“Why Steve,” said Bucky, “how did you know that’s exactly where I’ve always wanted to visit?”

Steve’s seat-back entertainment system was playing sound, but no picture. Bucky was settling in to nap anyway, and it seemed wise to attempt to do the same.

The clattering cling-clank of the drinks trolley shook, however, had other ideas.

“Anything to drink?” asked the attendant. She leaned in, speaking in a loud whisper. “Since when does Captain America fly coach?”

“Since Steve Rogers is off the clock,” he whispered back.

“Gotcha,” she smiled, with a conspiratorial wink. “Drink?”

Steve smiled too. “Got any milk?”

“Uhh,” she scrambled about in the trolley drawers, “just the little UHT cups you put in your coffee.”

“I’ll take six, please, and a cup with ice,” he said.

She smiled uncomfortably. “Sure,” she said. “And your companion?”

“Coffee, please,” said Bucky. “Five milks.”

It was nearly morning again when they arrived at the safehouse; or, at least, as far as the bus would take them. No cars went where they were going, the driver told them, and left them to make their way through the woods.

“Oh good,” said Bucky, hitching his heavy backpack over his shoulder, “that wasn’t ominous in the slightest.”

“Wade did say it was a safehouse,” Steve reminded him, gently grasping Bucky’s free hand. “Emphasis on safe. I’m sure it’s not going to be as haunted as this... really looks.”

The forest seemed to grow more and more enchanted around them as they ventured on: songbirds singing spring songs fluttered about under the canopy of dense trees, harmonising with the faint trickle of a nearby river. Little patches of wildflowers blossomed here and there, and the air was redolent with the clean dirt fragrance of land that had recently had a good, solid rain.

At the end of a long path lined on either side by heavy trees, a little red cottage stood in a small clearing. Two neat rectangles of tilled earth lay either side of the path just before the house, and the tiny green sprouts of some vegetables-to-be were beginning to pop up here and there.

This had been an excellent idea, if Steve said so himself.

The house was warm with that pleasant smell of well-maintained old wood: most of the walls were softly white, revealing the gentle striations of woodgrain beneath, and the floors were sturdy underfoot, if in need of a little sweeping. Shelves of old books and other important things lined the walls, and from the kitchen ceiling hung a clatter of deep red enamel cookware.

True to Wade’s form, the cupboards were stocked with coffee and tea, crispbreads, tinned fish of various flavours, jam, chips, instant rice pudding, a tube of something calling itself caviar, and an entire drawer filled with nothing but packets of taco seasoning. The bed was set up a run of stairs in a cozy little mezzanine, laid with fresh linens and a fluffy duvet. Steve set their backpacks down, while Bucky set about testing the plumbing.

“We have running water,” he declared, filling a silver gooseneck kettle, and setting it onto the stovetop. “Coffee?”

“God, yes,” replied Steve, yawning despite himself. Suddenly, the extent of their journey hit him like a sack of bricks to the face. “On second thought, maybe we should just call it a night.”

“It’s about seven in the morning,” countered Bucky.

Steve let out a low grunt in response. “Fine, coffee. And early to bed tonight.”

“Early to bed, huh?” Bucky leaned in close, murmuring softly in Steve’s ear. “That sounds nice.”

If Steve had had the energy to raise a coquettish eyebrow in reply, he surely would have. Instead, he hastily downed the hot drink in one, and shuffled upstairs, succumbing instantly to the inexorable draw of a soft bed.

“Just a little nap before lunch,” he insisted, kicking off the last of his travelling clothes.

“Mmmmmmf, tacos,” mumbled Bucky, bundling under the downy covers.

“Ughhh,” was about as much as Steve could manage, rolling onto his side, draping his limbs across Bucky like an exhausted baby sloth. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” replied Bucky, as Steve let the beautiful words repeat in his memory as he drifted into soft sleep.

Steve awoke to the soft chattering of birds and other unidentified woodland creatures, his eyes fluttering open into the low light that crept in through the windows. Bucky was out of bed already, stretching and bending himself into a sort of yogic triangle.

“Guess we missed lunch,” Steve yawned, dragging himself upright, as Bucky padded over to the window. “But we can have tacos for dinner.”

“What the hell?” Bucky stared out the window. “Light’s coming from the east, Steve. It’s not tonight, it’s tomorrow morning.”

Despite having once slept through multiple decades nearly without incident, Steve nonetheless found himself mildly disoriented at the knowledge that they had slept nearly an entire day. He scrubbed a hand over his heavily stubbled face, and fished a clean pair of underpants from his suitcase.

“Okay,” he said, his voice still low with sleep. “Tacos for breakfast?”

The first thing they did after breakfast (which was less tacos and more thick porridge and strong coffee) was lace up their sturdy walking shoes and venture out to explore their new surroundings. It felt almost stupid the way his heart leapt and his blush bloomed when Bucky took his hand, but somehow it was still magical to him that someone so kind and so funny and so good thought that Steve’s hand was worth holding. They passed fragrant wildflowers and delicate ferns, and ancient trees with thick trunks carpeted in velvet green moss. Steve was sure he had seen a moose somewhere in the distance.

And then, in a little clearing surrounded by flowering trees and nestled cozily among the craggy hills, was a gently steaming hotspring.

“Hey Buck,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “wanna take a dip?”

Bucky smiled. “Wouldn’t say no,” he replied, raising his shirt up and over his head.

Here, where it was just Bucky and Steve, hidden beneath a verdant canopy, and veiled by the swirling plumes of steam that rose around them, unencumbered by expectations, he almost forgot what it was that had left him so preoccupied.

As he let himself sink into the buoyant, mineraled water, resting against smooth stones, all the tension that remained in him dissolved out into the warmth, leaving him feeling like a thoroughly relaxed jelly.

“Okay,” said Steve, closing his eyes. “This is nice.”

He let his head rest against Bucky's shoulder, snuggling against his neck. As if by their own volition, his hands found themselves gently weaving through Bucky's soft, dampened hair, snuggles turning to kisses. Bucky shifted them closer together, sending a wave of sparkles through Steve's core. He could feel himself begin to harden, when — 

“Steve,” said Bucky, suddenly still.

“Mmm?” Steve paused his lazy kisses.

“There’s an owl,” replied Bucky. “Staring at us.”

“Hoot,” said the owl. 

“Oh, go hoot yourself,” retorted Steve, swatting a splash of water in the bird’s direction. The owl cocked its head to one side, and sat, unaffected and utterly not moving from its branch. “It’s not moving. Why isn’t it moving?”

“I don't think it cares what we're doing,” reasoned Bucky.

“I don't care if it doesn't care,” countered Steve, “I can’t... make love, with an audience.”

Bucky frowned. “Yeah, me neither,” he said.

Steve sank as deep as he could into the little pool, wishing he could chalk his blush up to the temperature of the water.

“Maybe we should just find a nice spot to have lunch,” he came up for just enough air to say.

“There’s a nice, comfy bed back at the house,” Bucky reminded him.

Steve frowned. “Lunch first,” he said, “and I’m staying in the spring until the owl’s gone. I don't want it to see me naked. It’s personal.”

“Steve,” said Bucky, “the owl’s naked.”

Lunch was a simple assemblage of things they had found in the house: smoked herring with thin slices of dark bread and soft, salted butter; a generous chunk of a rich, nutty mature cheese with sweet pickled beetroot and greens freshly picked from the front garden; a flask of tart berry cordial. Steve gazed up into the sky, marveling at the clouds floating lazily across a sea of vibrant blue. He knew the city would always be home, its noise and its people and the responsibilities he had there and would not give up for a moment, but the forest was nice to visit.

Bucky had gone wandering a little distance down the hill, radiant in the dappled light where the meadow met the edge of the forest.

“Steve, get over here,” he called out, “you’ve gotta see this.”

On closer inspection, Steve could see that among the broad, low-lying leaves and sweet white blooms were a few stalks bearing dainty, jewel-red fruits.

“You don’t always see wild strawberries this early in the season,” Bucky explained, examining the precious patch of tiny red treasures, “but with the warm spell we're having — ”

“How do you know so much about strawberries?” asked Steve.

“Remember how I wanted to be a park ranger when we were kids?”

Steve nodded. Bucky had always had the most interesting aspirations.

Bucky shrugged. “I did a lot of reading.”

Indeed, Steve remembered what a studious young man Bucky had been, much more than he ever let on, driven by curiosity and a mind as bright as the sun.

There was nowhere near enough fruit to make jam, so all there was to do was pick as many as they could find, eat their fill, and take the rest back to the house to have with morning coffee. They bundled the berries into a clean cloth napkin to carry home, but not before sharing a taste.

It was like no strawberry that Steve had ever tasted: it was sweet and tart and almost musky, buttery and perfumed and so red. It was rare that Steve ate something so good it made him moan with pleasure.

“That good, huh?” asked Bucky, taking a bite of the tiny fruit. He gasped. “Oh, yeah. That good.”

“Thanks for finding these, Buck,” replied Steve, punctuating his gratitude with a slow kiss.

“You taste like strawberries,” Steve murmured against Bucky’s sweet, pink-stained lips.

“Yeah, no shit,” Bucky laughed softly. 

Every once in a while, Steve still found himself genuinely awestruck by just how beautiful Bucky was. He was beautiful back in the day, shambling dog-tired into their shoebox apartment after a stressful day at the office, loosening his tie, and flopping down onto their worn-out old sofa; he was beautiful now, squinting into the bathroom mirror because he was sure he had found another grey in his beard; indeed, he would be beautiful five hundred years from now when they were both tiny old Yodas peddling baffling advice to young superheroes. 

“Wow,” he said quietly.

“What,” puzzled Bucky, blushing.

Steve said nothing, instead unfastening the buttons of Bucky's well-worn checked shirt, sliding it down his shoulders, letting it flutter to the ground.

“Yeah?” asked Steve.

“Oh,” replied Bucky, fumbling with the weird fastening on Steve's trousers. “Yeah.”

They tumbled together onto the plush blanket of grass, sun-warmed and soft and overwhelmed with love. At last, Steve forgot everything but the moment, the sound of the little hum of joy that Bucky made when Steve kissed him, the sweet scent of the grass and the cool of the earth beneath them, the feel of the soft spray of fuzz that Steve's fingertips followed slowly down Bucky's belly, and the light squeeze that drew a gasp and a blur of swears from him - a flurry of kisses and a desperate embrace. Steve was weightless and breathless: either Bucky had an uncanny way of knowing exactly how he needed to be touched, or every touch was perfect because it was Bucky. He felt as though they were made of glittering sunlight. He felt free. He felt love. He felt the light gathering at his core, and he came like a sunbeam breaking through the clouds. Bucky followed him, moaning against his skin, whispering gratitudes.

If any woodland creatures happened past their little scene this time, they quickly and quietly excused themselves, and traveled elsewhere.

“Goddamn, Steve,” panted Bucky, rolling onto his back, exhausted and glowing. “You're pretty good at that.”

“What the hell was I worried about?” laughed Steve, still dazed. He looked over at Bucky, who was already half dressed.

“Jeez, punk, get yourself cleaned up,” he joked, tossing a clean napkin at Steve. “You're all gross.”

“And whose fault would that be?” replied Steve.

“Yours,” said Bucky, shimmying into his trousers.

“Jerk,” said Steve, descending into a fit of joyous laughter.

It was nearly sundown when they made it back to the house, bundle of berries in hand. Steve was sure he could see something scamper off just as they made it to the garden.

“Did you see that?” he asked.

“Yeah,” replied Bucky. “Was that a totoro?” 

“I dunno, it was pretty round,” agreed Steve. “Could have been a moomin.”

“Moomins aren’t usually brown,” countered Bucky, carefully easing open the front door.

“So it was probably a beaver.” Steve set the berries down on the kitchen table.

“I’d like to think it was a totoro,” said Bucky, taking a seat on the front step.

Steve smiled, joining him. “Okay, maybe it was a totoro.”

“You know, I think I love this time of year most of all,” said Bucky, as the sun's last rays of the evening cast their glow over the pale thicket of trees, blossoms fluttering in the gentle breeze. “It was always a relief that we’d survived another winter, to see the world come back to life, to know I wouldn't have to worry about you catching your death if you got a hole in your socks. It still makes me feel, I dunno, hopeful. Is that dumb?”

“Well, I haven’t had pneumonia in about eighty years,” reasoned Steve, resting gently against Bucky’s side. “But yeah, it's nice.”

“We should probably go inside,” said Bucky, patting Steve affectionately on the arm. “Could do with a bath before bed.”

Steve followed him back into the house, wondering if the bathtub would comfortably accommodate the both of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! What's your favourite thing to do with a bumper crop of wild strawberries? Let me know in the comments below, and do [come say hello on tumblr](http://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com)!


End file.
